


and when i wake you, i’ll be the first thing you see

by Lizzen



Category: Folgers "Home for the Holidays" Commercial
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Incest, Underage - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 22:50:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13133859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizzen/pseuds/Lizzen
Summary: He’s telling her stories, an endless barrage of things funny and things sad. She’s not listening, not really; she’s watching his face light up. The curve of his lips and the animate gestures he makes. There’s a strange part of her that thinks: he’s grown handsome since I last saw him. The thought slides through her like oil in water, and she tries to shrug it off.





	and when i wake you, i’ll be the first thing you see

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nerissa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nerissa/gifts).



> a treat for Nerissa in Yuletide 2017
> 
> Well, this was a hoot.  
> Many thanks to my lovely beta!

“Goodnight,” she hears her mom say, and they both look up as if caught conspiring (they were, she knows where the good liquor is kept in the house). “Turn off the lights when you’re done.” 

They chorus a “goodnight” together before returning to the plotting. Adam will sneak upstairs in an hour, take the bottle of Glenfiddich, and she’s in charge of glasses. She’s still a little giggly from the red wine mom poured at dinner for them all earlier, and a taste of whisky won’t hurt either. 

She’s just-- she’s just so happy right now.

Snug as a bug, she’s leaned against him with his arm around her on the sofa. It’s lovely this way, lovely to have him back. She’s missed him; his presence, his voice. The way he brightens up the room with his smile. 

He’s telling her stories, an endless barrage of things funny and things sad. She’s not listening, not really; she’s watching his face light up. The curve of his lips and the animate gestures he makes. There’s a strange part of her that thinks: he’s grown handsome since I last saw him. The thought slides through her like oil in water, and she tries to shrug it off. 

There’s something dark in his eyes when she shivers a little. “Tell me about you,” he says. “I want to know everything.” And she laughs, and laughs.

“Nothing is interesting about high school, I promise you,” she says at last, but launches into a story, because he asked.

He’s an attentive listener, asks good questions. Seems interested. She loves that about him; she could tell him anything, she thinks. Anything at all. She’s been without a good confidant all this time he’s been gone, and soon she’s chattering away about so many things. He bristles in a brotherly fashion when she dodges questions about boys. “Or girls,” he offers lightly and she smiles. 

“Or girls,” she echoes and changes the subject. 

His phone alarm goes off and he lifts his shoulders, hunkers down into a mischievous pose. “I’ll be back,” he whispers. Leans in quickly, and press his lips to her temple. Then he disappears up the stairs. 

There’s something cold that washes over her, in his absence. He’s was so warm. 

She goes to the kitchen, finds two short glasses and fills one of them with ice. Finds a few cookies and puts them on a plate and returns to the living room. 

He emerges soon, bottle in hand, and a shit eating grin on his mouth. There’s about a finger for her, and two for him, and they clink glasses triumphantly together. He watches her drink first before taking a measured sip, and she immediately feels something warm in her belly. It’s nice. This, and a secret drink. 

“What’s next for you?” she asks and something inscrutable masks his face, and she feels left for a moment. Kept in the dark. Her hand grips his and she says, softer this time: “It’s okay.” She doesn’t know why she says it, but he seems to relax at the words, at her touch. As if she allowed him something.

“I don’t know,” he says after another sip. “What do you think I should do?”

“Live with us,” she says immediately. 

And he smiles. “That sounds nice.” He sounds a little hungry when he says it and there’s that dark look in his eyes again. She likes it, likes seeing him like this. Wanting to be here, with her. 

They drink together in silence, but it’s a nice kind of quiet. Comfortable. They don’t have to talk. She nestles further against him, enjoying the heat of him. Don’t go back, she thinks with every selfish bone in her body. Stay with me forever, instead of being out there, out saving the world, she thinks. “Love you,” she whispers after a few minutes.

“I love you,” he replies and squeezes her tight. 

She finishes her drink, smacks her lips together, and he pours her half a finger more. “That’s it for you, lightweight,” he says softly and she steals a sip from his glass in rebellion. 

“Do you want to--” she starts, looking at the television, but he shakes his head. “I want to hear more,” he says. “I’ve missed so much.” And he clears his throat. “You went to homecoming? Mom sent me a picture.”

Her heart sinks. That photo and her date were terrible. “It sucked,” she replies evenly. “We lost, the dance was terrible, Steve was boring.” And he tenses. “--And a terrible kisser,” she huffs, partly because she’s still sore about it and partly to see him react.

She watches his fingers curl into an almost fist and her heart does a little flip, to have done that. Be the cause of that. “But maybe I’m the one terrible at kissing,” she adds. “Not much practice.”

“Good,” he says too quickly. Amused, she pat his knee twice and then, without much thought, she doesn’t move her hand. Leaves it there.

“You probably got plenty of action from those nurses,” she says. “How could they resist you?” She holds her breath for his answer.

He looks at her steadily, as if he’s making a decision. “Nah,” he finally says and there’s something noticeable in his breathing now, like he’s almost winded but hiding it as best he can. 

“Not even a kiss?” she says with a hitch in her voice. 

And something changes in him, abruptly. He leans back, drinks carefully from his glass. “You jealous?” he says with a touch of distance. 

Her skin begins to tingle with something unknowable. “Of anyone taking your attention away from me? Of course I’m jealous,” she replies heatedly. “I’m jealous of the entire continent of Africa at this point.”

His body is so tense now, she can feel it against her. A hardening of his muscles, wrinkles in his face. She struck a nerve, and he’s holding himself back. But from what, she thinks. 

“I’m jealous too,” he says quietly without further explanation of what, of whom. 

This is when her gaze lowers from his eyes to his lips and the worst idea comes to her. It’s awful and it takes her breath away. 

No, she thinks, no; no. Don’t feel this way. Don’t, she thinks. But her imagination speeds ahead without hesitation or restraint. She sees herself move forward, lean in. Get close, closer. Dare him to do it and when he doesn’t, do it for him. Press her lips against his and see what she’ll learn after she does. 

“We should go to bed,” he says, interrupting her thoughts. There’s something pink tinged in his cheeks and she wonders if he feels it too. 

God, she thinks. What if he does? And she’s paralyzed by it.

He takes the glass out of her hands, and their fingers brush. An electric touch that sends a surge of feeling through her. Easily, he downs her drink and then his own. “Bed,” he says. “There’s tomorrow and tomorrow to talk. Before I leave.”

It’s the cold water she needed, a liberal dose of it, and she straightens. Gets to her feet. “I’ll get the lights,” she says, hoping she doesn’t sound as sad as she feels. 

“I’ll put away the glasses,” he says, stacking them and taking the plate to the kitchen. Hiding the evidence. 

There’s just the light of the Christmas tree lights now, dimming the room. With her entire soul, she misses him already; a peculiar kind of grief. There’s something salty in her eyes as she waits for him to emerge from the kitchen, grab the bottle, and walk in her direction. She blinks rapidly, willing herself to be cool. Be solid, for him. 

So, she’s still, inhumanly so, and he gets close. “You okay?” he says when they’re inches apart. She sniffs, a complete betrayal, and he moves in, puts his arm around her. “It’s okay,” he says. “We’ll be okay,” he says. “It’s just another year.”

And when she looks up at him, she sees something else. “Mistletoe,” she whispers. They’re under the mistletoe. And there’s a decision that she makes, despite the sudden softness she feels in her knees. Because there is still strength in her arms. 

She cups his face carefully, like she’s seen in movies, and presses her lips against his. I can do this, she thinks vaguely, before she completely and utterly loses her head because he _sighs_ and his arm around her tightens like a vise. Oh fuck, she thinks and yet her mouth opens and his tongue slides along her lower lip. She feels it right down to her toes, and something clenches deep inside of her. 

He disengages for a moment, puts the bottle on the floor, and without a word, kisses her again, this time with both arms around her, crushing her to him. This is new, this is not like the tepid kisses she’s had with others. This is _wonderful_. She’s finding it hard to breathe, between, what, the physicality and the feeling. Squeezing her legs together, she’s a fire, alight. 

His hands are firm against her waist, clutching her so tight, but she wants them everywhere, touching her and feeling her tremble against him. She wants it to be good for him, good enough to remember her by, so she pays attention to his cues, to how he kisses her so that she matches him. Her fingers tug on his short hair, and he lets out the most shocking sound: a groan as if she’s doing something, something filthy to him. It almost jars her out of the reverie; unsure if she knows enough to do anything with his passion. 

Her own desire is building -- has been building for hours now, if she’s being honest -- and she has no known outlet for it other than her mouth against his. She doesn’t know-- she doesn’t--

And she pushes away, unsure and gasping. “I want to--” she says weakly. “But I don’t know--”

“We have to stop,” he interrupts. 

“I don’t want to.” The words fly out of her mouth before she can stop them. “I want--”

“I know,” he says, and pulls her into a hug. “I know.” His fingers tangle in her hair, and she holds him close. She wishes then, in that moment, that they could merge together, be one instead of these two confused pieces. And the longing fills her to the brim, threatens to topple her over into madness. She breathes in, clutching at him, and breathes out. 

Then, she lifts her face, stares into his eyes. “Think about it,” she says. “I know I will.” 

There’s a chuckle, short and bitter, and he says softly, almost too soft for her to hear. “I won’t be able to think of anything else.”

Her lips press against his again, this time with gentle pressure, a light touch. “Merry Christmas,” she whispers into his skin. And he sighs out something that makes her feel soft all over. He’s wrecked, she’s ruined him. She’s done it. No one else. And it makes her feel powerful, puts strength in her limbs.

She stoops down for the bottle but before she disappears up the stairs, she looks back to see him where she left him, still as a statue. She’ll remember him, and remember him like this. 

#

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] and when i wake you, i'll be the first thing you see](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16765183) by [Azdaema Pods (Azdaema)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azdaema/pseuds/Azdaema%20Pods)




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